Let's Play
by SedgewikWrites
Summary: This new game called Descending pops up, and Cryaotic decides to give it a go on a whim. It's an open-ended roleplaying game, one that boasts polished graphics and an immersive universe. But when events from the game start to find their way into his daily life, Cry slowly learns that he isn't playing alone. [[New Chapter!]]
1. Part One: Descending

It was a cold afternoon in September; dreary, overcast and generally unpleasant. The perfect day to stay inside my walled fortress, my safe haven. My eyes caught on the window frame, the tantalizing chilly air, and for a second I thought of venturing outside. I ripped my tired gaze free and instead planted it on the twin screens on my computer. Oh, yeah. I had yet to record today, and the light was already starting to fail.

I would be up all night editing, and I would again go to bed in the middle of the next day, only to wake up to the dying light of dusk. But this was the nature of the beast. I'm a Let's Player.  
My name is Cry. No, obviously, that's not my real name, but it's what I would like you to call me. I like to be anonymous, if that wasn't already clear. Despite this, I'm in the public eye on a daily basis... whether I want to be or not is kind of up in the air. I have a following of three-hundred-thousand and counting. A small army, I joke to myself sometimes.  
If you don't know what a Let's Player is, well, it's easy to explain. I am someone who plays video games and I provide my sometimes humorous commentary on them. I play for the viewers, and they keep me playing. Some may call it useless and a waste of time, but I'm more than satisfied with what I do. And apparently so are a lot of people.  
"Welcome to Cry Plays: Descending." I spoke softly into my headset. I've been told numerous times that I have a nice voice. The voice of a salesman, a disc jockey on the radio, or a phone sex operator. I don't think it's anything to swoon over, but as far as voices go it's pretty alright. It serves its purpose.  
"I don't know a lot about this game besides that it's free to play, horror-themed, and it looks fucking awesome. So let's get to it." I began to play, recording every moment of my descent into the game universe. I had my hesitations about playing this game. It was not well known and not the kind of thing I typically do. But, in the end, I was won over by the nice graphics, an open-ended plot I could really get into, and the game play. The game play was just... so realistic and fluid. I was easily hooked on it. Bait, line, and sinker.  
The game featured a troubled man, living on his own, seeking to validate himself to the world. He was nameless, something I could obviously appreciate. But he sought to push the boundaries of what his anonymity could give him, starting with simple robbery and escalating into complex serial killings. He would document every crime and post it online, leaving a morbid little tease for the police and his loyal followers. The point of the game was simply to see how much the player could get away with without being caught.  
I played for the better half of an hour before dozing off at the keys. It took a while to get a grip on the controls, but soon it was like I had never not played. Each of my three small-time bank robberies were well-executed, netting me some in-game cash to spend on new weapons and other, more elaborate escapades.  
Rubbing my eyes, I took off my headset with a measure of grace equally expressed by a drunkard. Unlike a drunkard, however, I still had my thoughts together. I knew I had to edit the raw footage yet, but there was something aching in my arm muscles that protested the very thought. My entire being seemed drained by simply playing a video game. 'I should go outside tomorrow,' I resolve to grin and bear the editing before bed, rubbing my tender wrists.  
After much work with the footage, after much toiling aand yawning, I finally had a finished product to upload to Youtube. A hearty yawn escaped from my lips as I absentmindedly set the video to upload. It would take a while to process, and it would post itself some time during the night. That was my cue to finally get some rest. I slid back in my chair, turned sharply, and fell onto my bed.

Or so I thought. My eyes jerked open and I found myself asleep at the keys. My face was pressing on the keyboard, my glasses plastered to my cheek. I remember thinking to myself that this was unlike me, and that I usually wait until I'm at least almost on the bed before passing out. I let out a monstrous yawn, making my eyes watery. I decided it couldn't be helped, and massaged my stiff neck with a tentative hand.  
I recall that my second coherent thought was to check up on my upload. Even tired, hungry, and having a crick in my neck- my viewers were always there, somewhere in my mind. After a few clicks, I was staring the video in the face. A flood of comments assaulted my vision. Some good, some bad, and the occasional poorly-written spam message or advertisement. All seemed normal, besides copious amounts of people asking me to play more and for me to give out a download link. Well, that was pretty normal, too. Many praised the graphics and plot, some chastised me for playing such a 'violent' game that sets 'such a bad example!' But let's face it, it wasn't like I hadn't ever played a gory, or crime-themed let's play before.  
I began to respond with a download link before realizing I didn't remember where I had gotten it. It wasn't like me to be so forgetful. After a half an hour of unfruitful searching, I gave up the chase. It was like Descending had disappeared from the face of the internet. But yet, it was there. "Screw it." Frustrated, I mumbled before pushing myself away from my workspace. I resolved to continue the search later. They could wait.  
I made myself two pieces of dry toast before showering in my dimly lit home. It was nearly night again, I thought solemnly as I pressed my tired head again the smooth shower wall. I remember my friend Russ telling me I needed to get my sleep schedule in order, but I didn't foresee that happening. I let cold water run down my back for several minutes before turning the water off with a reluctant huff. I might not seem the type to enjoy time alone, but I fit it better than most think.  
I needed to go out that night. I needed some light was almost gone and most people were at home, sitting in their living rooms. Watching the the latest television programs with their families. Good. I get worried, I will admit, about people recognizing me. Not for my face, of course, but for my voice. It sounds silly, but it's an anxiety of mine- of anyone who would rather remain a face in the crowd.  
I pulled on a nondescript grey hoodie and some frayed jeans, completing the look with a pair of worn sneakers lying next to the door. When one thinks of Florida weather, tank tops and shorts come to mind. Bikinis on the beach and surf boards, that sort of thing. But for some reason, September has transformed this place into a windy wasteland. And that's just fine with me.  
Catching sight of myself in the reflection of my door's glass panel, I stopped to admire my guise of normalcy. I looked like any other scrub walking the streets. I remember being surprised by a small cut on my cheek in my reflection. I ran a finger over it, and it came away with a squick of blood on it. I guessed it was from shaving, and let it be.  
I live in a secluded neighborhood near the edge of town. I own a car, but lately it has just been resting in my driveway. I would be willing to wager that my sneakers have been generating more miles than that three-ton paper weight. It was a short walk into town, wind whistling in my ears. The air was crisp and refreshing after many days cooped up within my house.  
Not that I didn't like being inside, I reassure myself as I pass a tv store downtown. Televisions line the glass store front, lighting up the dark streets. I wouldn't have paid it any mind on the usual day. The storekeeper always kept the news on, calling it a public service. I called it a waste of electricity, but it wasn't my place to decide how the man spent his money.  
Maybe it was my wandering mind that set my eyes on a crash course with the flashing screen. Maybe there was something within me that felt like I needed to look. On the screen was a newscaster, a woman with a nice jacket and tidy hair. She looked kind of out of it, if I'm to be completely honest. She was not the usual woman who reported for the local news station.  
My sneakers caught on the sidewalk, coming to a halt feet from the screen. The streets are empty, so I feel comfortable enough to stop for a moment. Even if there was a crowd, I probably couldn't stop myself from watching the show. There had been a bank robbery two towns away earlier that day. They didn't know much about it, but something about it clicked in my head. The bank shared a name with one of the banks I'd robbed in Descending. I chuckled at it. Funny, I thought, life's little curve balls.  
But then the woman smoothed her blonde hair nervously and continued, and my smile died a bit. She rambled off the names of two other banks. Two more banks that shared their names with in-game banks. My brain took a moment to process, and I hoped that I was wrong. That it was just stress, or tiredness, or something else.  
This was the moment where I walked away from the screens, my head swimming. Maybe coming outside wasn't the best decision. My first idea was that I had to be dreaming this. Perhaps I had played too many video games, and it was beginning to warp my mind. But after pinching myself and slapping myself on the face, I accepted that this was not a dream.  
Somewhere out there was a sick man, recreating the game I was playing. Were they a viewer? Hiding in the sea of three-hundred-thousand-and-counting anonymous followers was a fairly safe place to be a killer. Or was it truly just mad coincidence? I found that hard to believe.  
When I got home again, I slammed the door. The house shook and the wooden door frame cracked, leaving a souvenir of my daze. I locked the door behind me and kicked off my sneakers next to the door. I pulled off my sweatshirt, leaving only a striped blue t-shirt underneath. I felt violated. I felt watched, but not in the normal sense.  
I rushed around my house, pulling shades left and right. I knew there was no way they could see me, and yet it felt safer to be behind the dark, drawn curtains. I sat in my bedroom, staring at the dark screen for several minutes before turning it on. I felt betrayed by it. I was almost afraid of what I might find.  
"Stop." The word came out an octave too high as I choked it out without any measure of conviction. "Stop this, Cry. You're making assumptions. You're just tired, is all." I didn't believe myself, but it felt better to hear it out loud. As the screen flashed to life, I contemplated telling Russ, or Scott, or Pewds. Would they laugh and blame it on coincidence, or would they take it as seriously as I was seeming to?  
I went out to my kitchen, and grabbed myself a drink out of the fridge. Nothing that would floor me, just something that might take the edge of apprehension off my mind. On my way back to the secluded room where I record, my eyes nervously skirted my door's damnable glass panel. Although I know there was nothing there, I still paused to make sure.  
Seeing nothing but still anxious, I took a solid swig from the bottle. It did little to encourage me, but, with a glance to make sure the door was securely bolted, I headed back to my sanctuary. I place my headset on, adjusting the microphone carefully. I still had to record tonight, but I choose to record something more lighthearted than Descending that night. Scribblenauts would grant me an hour of release.  
I didn't rush through it, but I got it done and out of the way. Editing was less time-consuming than usual, and I set it up for processing. This methodical ritual, aided by my choice of alcoholic beverage, helped to keep my mind off of the revelations of earlier.  
As if on some divine timer, Skype chirped just as I pushed myself away from the keyboard to fall onto my bed. It was a relief, almost, but also a subtle reminder that the world existed outside my room. It was Pewds.  
Pewds is what I had called him. Pewdiepie, really. Felix, if you want to be really proper. A fellow Let's Player from Sweden, and one of my good friends. "Hey Cry. I saw that game Descending you uploaded. Looks pretty fun," the text read. Fun. There was hesitation before another message came through, "Could I bother you for the download link? Can't find it anywhere!"  
I stared at the text on the screen for longer than I should have. I could've just pretended not to be there, or pretended to be recording or editing, or sleeping. I almost ignored him and crawled into bed right then. It was late, and the alcohol was encouraging me to sleep. Instead, as if I was being controlled, my fingers danced quickly across the keys, "Hey Pewds. Sorry, friend. I can't find the link again. But I'll e-mail the file to you."  
"That would be great! Thanks," came his polite response. Now was my chance to ask him what to do about those perfectly-coincedental robberies... if anything should be done at all.  
"Hey, Pewds?" I typed slowly. I knew I could trust him, but it was a matter of keeping it to myself or not. I had the sinking feeling that I was blowing it out of proportion and that all I really needed was more alcohol, more Scribblenauts, and a nap. I barely wait for a response, and with unmatched speed, I spill. I spill it all. Maybe it was the alcohol, perhaps sleep deprivation, or maybe I just was desperate to share my anxieties with him. Whatever my reason was, there the words sat for both of us to see.  
My friend took a while to answer. He was thinking it over, I assumed. After several minutes of waiting in the dark, new words flash across the screen. "That's really strange, and creepy, especially so close to your home. I think that it's likely a coincidence, but if you are really concerned about it, I suggest not uploading any more of it for the next few days. It might be best to let it all cool down... If worse comes to worst, maybe cancel the series all together."  
He was right, I knew, but there was something in me that wanted to upload more. To get it out there as a test, to see if more robberies sprung up. What about murders? I thought. Of course, the thought immediately made me sick of myself. Sacrificing some innocent lives, just to prove a point? I set my drink down and slid it aside. Perhaps stronger than I thought. Enough of that for tonight.  
"Are you okay, man?" Pewds asked. Although it was only text on a white page, there was concern behind the keystrokes. I wondered if he just woke up, and if I had disrupted his good morning with my perhaps drunken talk of robberies and my own anxieties about them.  
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Thanks for the advice." I typed, "I think what I need right now is some sleep, if you don't mind." I took off my glasses and rubbed my tired eyes. The beginnings of a killer headache were lurking behind them, and I knew sleep would do some good to me. Perhaps I could follow Russ's advice after all.  
"Not at all," my friend answers. "Sleep well." With his farewell, I closed out of Skype and shut off my computer. I wanted to distance myself from the world. As silly as it sounds, the idea of sleeping near it made me queasy. My own bed, just feet from the computer, was grossly unappealing. I dragged my weary body down the hall to my living room and crashed on the couch.  
Sleep and I had a complicated relationship, but sometimes we got along was, surprisingly, one of those nights. I slept easily, despite my slightly guilty, slightly drunken conscience.


	2. Part Two: Skeleton

I awoke to the shrieking sound of the phone ringing off the hook, and I grumpily forced myself off of the couch to answer it. I picked up my cell without looking at it, and held it close to my face. Drool had dried on my cheek, and I sheepishly wiped it off, as if the other person could have seen it or something. Subconsciously, I tweaked my voice's tone to fit that of someone else. Anyone else but the faceless man I was.

"Hello?" I said gruffly, not even bothering to look at the caller id. Although my tone was false, my annoyance was real. For the average person, a phone call at this time of day would not ruin their sleep, but perhaps their dinner. It wasn't the caller's fault, I know, but that doesn't make it any easier to be reasonable when tired and fighting a mild hangover.

"Drop the act, Cry." The voice came with a light chuckle, and I immediately recognized it as Russ. He was a good friend of mine, a partner of mine for my weekly livestream, and also a fellow youtuber. It didn't surprise me at all that he saw straight through my thinly disguised voice. We talked pretty frequently, and because of this he knew a lot about me. "You haven't been on Skype much these last couple nights, so I decided to give you a call to make sure you're still breathing." He knew a lot about me including where I lived, my phone number, and even my real name. The only thing he didn't know was what I looked like. But he didn't seem to mind that.

"Yeah, I've been adjusting to this new sleeping schedule you prescribed." I answered fluidly, despite my ebbing fatigue. There was a little pounding in my head, but I tried to ignore it.

"And how is it working out for you?" Came his reply.

"Not well." I eyed the lumpy couch distastefully through narrowed eyes, fumbling my glasses back onto my face. "I say that, but it really did help me."

"Props on that new let's play, by the way. It looks like a pretty sweet game." And there it was. The shadowy thing lurking in the corners of my mind, lurching its smug little head once again. With the waking light, however, I looked upon it with newfound curiosity. I was wondering how far my crazed fan would go to get my attention. Was that what he or she was after? It felt vain to think about it like that, but it was hard not to.

"Thanks. It's a pretty slick game. I'm going to upload some more today." I said it with conviction. That was enough of this choking anxiety. If someone wanted to play games with me, if someone wanted to fuck around with the law, who was I to tell them not to?

Our conversation went on for a while, evolving into fits of laughter and silly jokes, before I excused myself to play more Descending. Russ was more than understanding, and in fact eager to see more. In truth, it was at this point that I started to crave more as well. I set a timer for exactly thirty minutes and opened the menu of the game.

It's dark surface offered a glossy reflection of my own face in the fading light. Across my eyes was, in grungy letters, 'Descending.' Hovering tantalizingly over my mouth was a simple inquiry: 'play?' With a quick click, I indulged myself. I was thrown back into the universe where I had last played, and the feeling of satisfaction was crawling back into my cold fingertips.

I decided to be a little more creative in my crime this time. The ones I had already completed- three simple robberies- weren't enough to keep my subscribers, or me, invested in this game. They craved more, and I was happy to oblige. Not only that, but the more complex, the more risky, the harder it would be to duplicate. I hoped to fake out my may-be shadow.

It was almost as if I had gone into a trance where I was talking, where I was making my usual jokes, but none of it registered on a higher level than minimal awareness. For me in that thirty minutes, I might as well have been not talking at all.

The timer rang, and I broke free from the binds of my concentration. I saved and exited the game without much thought. What exactly had I done? I had almost forgot. A big step that I perhaps should have thought about more than I did. My small-time robberies had escalated to manslaughter. Just one. Just one test. Just one life.

His name was Julian Fox. I stalked this man for blocks, down abandoned streets and alleyways. He kept looking over his shoulder at me, his pace quickening out of anxiety. He knew, but he would react on this judgement far too late. It was his hesitation that got him killed. I... I didn't want myself to be too brutal on him, even though he was just a collection of pixels in a game. But he fought back. I made it quick, with a yellow-shafted hatchet. It wasn't very clean, and in hindsight I could've done more for him.

I hid his body, though not well. I'm not exactly what you would call a professional in this field. I cleaned my hatchet with a garden hose. And then the timer rang, and I resurfaced. Back to reality, back to myself.

Julian Fox. I rolled his name around in my head like some kind of chant for several minutes before I finally stopped myself. I sat in silence for another moment or two before scrambling for an adjacent phone book. I fingered through pages and pages of names until I came to one mister Julian Fox.

I just sat there with my finger on the page for a while, debating whether or not to warn the man of his possible impending death by hatchet. No, I decided, snapping the yellow pages shut. There was something about it that made me feel uncomfortable, that my shadow was playing me as much as I was playing the game.

But there was something else about this that made me feel powerful. In uploading this video tonight, I would send a bulletin to my accomplice- Accomplice. The word was heavy on my mind and dragged the corners of my lips down into a soft frown.

"No, you're innocent," I said out loud, as if that would make it more true. I tried to reassure myself, but even I doubted at that point. It's not my fault some psychopath can't separate reality from the game. I fumbled my mouse around in my hand before editing my newly created footage. This took hours of tweaking, adjustments, and a few cuts here and there. But there it was, ready to process. Ready to send. My eyes hovered over the button that would start its journey to my shadow's eager subscription box. I had my last minute doubts, of course, but in the end I did it. There it was.

I slid away from my desk with an emotionless kick of the chair. I caught myself thinking that this was some kind of wicked experiment or some kind of 'what would you do?' situation where I was being tested... played. I looked at my open door, waiting for John Quinones to run through it with his camera crew. But there was nothing. I dismissed the idea as silly, but it still hung in my mind like a sopping, discarded towel.

I fell onto my bed, too caught up in my own thoughts to entertain the concept of sleep. Instead, my eyes wandered around my cozy room. I wouldn't call myself a hoarder, but I kept a treasure trove of odd things in there. There was a collection of dusty books sitting on a shelf near my desk. Under that were some calendars, don't ask me why. Two axes rested on top of some boxes by my desk, and a camcorder sat adjacent to them. Neither were yellow, I assured myself. A small collection of spices, a women's shake-weight, and a box of gourmet ramen were strewn onto my desk at random. It's organized chaos.

The shake-weight was a joke gift from a friend, the rest were a few of my online purchases as of late. I eyed my hatchets. There was an unsettling air about them, and one looked... wet. I convinced myself that it was only my sleepy imagination mixed with the darkness, and I forced myself to look away from the weapons. I didn't even know how to use them, they were just for fun.

I laid there for the better part of an hour before sitting straight up on my comforter. I was a man possessed. I took the ruffled phone book and found Julian Fox again. Although the pages were seas of names, I finally found it in the dim room.

I fumbled around in my sheets for my cellphone. I glanced at the screen before taking note of the time. It was only midnight- no wonder I couldn't sleep. According to the upload, I still had hours before Julian was to be possibly marked to die. Plenty of time to save his life... if it was in danger, that is.

I dialed his number and my voice dipped to its 'other' tone. If he was going to die, I thought, I didn't want my real voice to be on recording. If I had a brain, I might not had decided to call him at all. But my conscience wouldn't let me stop myself.

The phone rang once, twice, several times before I tossed it aside with an annoyed flick of my wrist. The phone bounced off my bed with an energetic hop. Maybe he wasn't home which didn't comfort me at all. I tried again, and again. Somehow, though, I ended up falling asleep with my phone gripped in my fist.

x

Morning came at an alarming pace. A week had passed without any incident from the 'shadow', and a sense of calm was beginning to take permanent residence in my head and my sun blinded my eyes that were so used to darkness. It had been so long since I had seen the morning sun dancing on the open window sill. It was often that I left the window closed, but looking at it now I felt safe enough to open it. I pushed it open with a sturdy heave, and in rushed the fresh air.

I looked at my computer screens, and told myself to wait. It could wait. I walked through my living room, into my admittedly quite dainty kitchen. I threw open the wooden cabinet doors to find only one can of chicken noodle soup.

However desolate my pantry was, I could hardly resist. I took the can back to my room and ate it cold as I read the latest. The second part of Descending had been well reviewed, though I hadn't made a third part yet. There was a lot of Scribblenauts in the last week, and few complaints about it. There was no announcement of Julian's death, though he still didn't answer his phone. I had thought I had made it. Proved that it was just a conincedence after all.

Skype broke me out of my trance, almost making me spill my Campbell's all over my scattered papers and treasures. I swore quietly, wiping a tiny dribble of broth off of my arm. I ripped my attention away from my upload for a moment to answer my friend. It was Pewds again, saying good morning. For him, it was already the afternoon.

"Funny to see you up so early. Are you sure you're the real Cry?" The words flashed onto the screen. I laughed out loud, but it sounded nervous. I chided myself, and was glad he couldn't have heard it.

"I'm sure," I typed, taking another spoonful of soup as I paused. "There's been no killings that match my LP of Descending, but I have yet to check today." I had hope.

There was hesitation on his end before he responded, "I really hope you don't find any." There was a pause before another line appeared beneath it, "If you do, I'm here if you need to talk about it."

"Thanks." I know he had advised me not to play anymore last week, but there was a hungry curiosity I needed to satisfy. If I could catch the shadow somehow... That was if he existed, of course.

"And Cry?" Skype burbled and I looked up from my quick breakfast. "Be careful what you do in the game, okay?"

The words were simple, and something I already knew. I expected the mimic to keep in step with me. I minimized Skype before opening the local news on my computer. And there it was, in big bold print.

I should say I was surprised to see it, but I wasn't. Under the headline was a rather lively picture of Julian Fox. Beneath that were the first lines of the report, "Julian Fox, aged 38, found dead under an overpass early this morning. An investigation is underway. A calling card was left at the scene by the presumed murderer. It reads, 'Let's Play.' Is the message an invitation, or is it a clue?"

I sat back in my chair with a sickly satisfied smirk. Both, actually. The man was calling me out, but also being quite clever. Poor Julian never knew what hit him, and neither did the police. But I knew that it was a yellow-shafted hatchet. Nine times to the chest.

Skype burbled again, flashing orange in its little corner of my desktop. It was Pewds, no doubt curious at what I'd found. What I'd made, I corrected myself as I opened the window again.

"They found him today." I typed, pushing my can of soup aside. "Executed exactly as I had in the video. Every detail. Except he left a calling card. 'Let's Play,' it says."

"That's so sick," came the reply. "Why would anyone do that?"

I struggled with whether or not to tell him that I wanted to experiment further. Would he find me just as sick? Did he already, for me killing a man- er, directing someone to kill a man? Was there really a difference there? Yes, I decided, though not much of one.

Wordless, I merely stared back at the screen until the Swede said more. "Maybe there's a way to stop him." Even then I was wordless, almost to the point of being breathless.

"How?" I typed slowly, but before he could reply there was a knock at my door. "Be right back." I typed, and swung my chair away from the computer. It was half way to the door that I felt this overwhelming nervousness. They had found the body today, what if they had evidence against me somehow? What if my shadow planted something that would incriminate me?

I made my way to the door anyway, my heart pumping much too fast. My breathing was heavy and I tried my best to steady it as I reached the door. Through the glass was a person, but not a police officer as I feared. My heart calmed, but my breaths still came in grossly obvious gulps.

I opened the door with a questioning look. I aimed to look like I was busy, and that my visitor needed to spit it out. That much was true. I held the door nervously to the side, taking in the face of my neighbor. She was an elderly woman. Sweet, but she always wanted me to do things for her. Things like feed her cats and put up shelves and drive her to the grocery store on the weekends.

"Hello," She used my real name, and it felt weird to hear it after so long. "I haven't seen you in a while, dear. Why don't you put on some pants, come over and sit a spell?"

I looked down. Nothing but fucking Pokemon boxers. In my nervous rush to the door, I'd blanked on the fact that I was only half-dressed. I cringed at the thought of what would have happened if I were one to sleep naked. I placed myself behind the door frame hastily to hide my half-naked body, and she chuckled lightly. "Nothing I haven't seen before, dearie." I was not convinced that this old lady had ever seen a man in his twenties wearing only Pokemon boxers, but I digress.

I would feel rude rejecting this sweet old woman and her four cats and her constantly dismantled shelves but I was in the middle of something right now. I had directed the murder of a man and I would not be able to feel right sipping lemonade in my neighbor sitting room right now. Besides, I wasn't done with my soup. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Shaw. I'm a little busy right now."

Her eyes fell in disappointment, probably wondering what to do with her now-empty day. After the death of her husband, she'd been knocking on my door regularly. Although I don't particularly enjoy socializing with my neighbors, I'd feel terrible to refuse this elderly widow. "Back to bed with you, then." She said with a polite goodbye and walked slowly back to her house across the street. I watched her as she went, and soon she disappeared into her home.

I closed the door with a relieved sigh, and rushed back to my computer screen. I hastily re-opened Skype and saw that Pewds had written something. "I wouldn't know where to begin, I've never hunted a killer!" I was a little disappointed, but I knew that a plan would not come so easily.

"As much as I don't want to play any more Descending," I half-lied, "I can't just leave it at this. There must be some way." I waited for a response, but there was none. Pewds was probably away from his computer, or eating, or... something. I twirled my used spoon around in the empty can, wishing there were more soup.

"I can't leave it at this."


	3. Part Three: Glass

How should I proceed? The question plagued me, hanging unanswered in my mind. A part of me did want to leave it at that, cancel the series, and forget Julian Fox and the killer's invitation. Let's Play. Damn that clever bastard. He knew that I knew, and he wanted me to go on. Give him an encore. Upstage him. What would he do if I didn't?

I shivered softly in the evening air. It was days later. I was sitting on my back porch, listening to the crickets and the cars and the wind. I had hoped that it would calm me down a bit. I was finally coming to terms with the fact that I had killed a man. I had ripped away an innocent human life. Vicariously, anyway. Was that the right word? Perhaps 'guilty by association' fit the bill better. Regardless of how I was, I knew I was guilty.

But yet, there was a drive to do more damage. The second part of Descending was well received by my followers. They didn't know the other side of the story, though. They didn't know what I'd done. They pined for more and more episodes, but they just didn't understand. I hadn't been recording since the discovery of Julian's body. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I excused myself for a few days due to 'personal issues' and left it at that. They'd understand.

I'd been scouring the internet to see if anybody had caught any of the real-life events that matched my videos, but it seemed like nobody had. If they did, they weren't speaking up, and that made me feel a little better about it. Not being accused of it made it much easier for my conscience to take.

September was turning into October, and the temperature had started to drop slightly. More and more people were complaining of the unnatural chill in the air every day, and I knew it would only get worse as the month went- My thoughts were disturbed by a single, distant knock and a more distinct thud. I sat straight up, listening, but the sounds didn't continue.

My chest tighted and my muscles tensed as I slipped quietly off of my porch swing. I paused there, at my screen door. I dared to peek inside, and to my relief there was nothing to be seen in the dark house. I swallowed sheepishly before laughing at myself and going inside. I was too on edge. I often wonder how I managed to live like that.

Out from seemingly nowhere came the dark figure, bulky, slow-moving, and oddly-shaped. It looked vaguely human, but holding something large in its hands. I gasped loudly, interrupting my laugh and sucking it in. It sat solidly in my lungs like cement. Perhaps, just this once, I was right to be on edge. I fumbled for a weapon, finding a pen on the counter next to the door. I clicked it, and brandished it. It would have to do.

The figure didn't seem to see me, but it called out to me. The voice was female, raspy. She couldn't seem to see or hear very well. I clicked the pen again and let it roll from my hand as my fingers found the light switch. The room came alive with light as the hunched form of Mrs. Shaw became clear. She was holding a large cardboard box in her hands. Her eyes found me in the now-illuminated room and they flashed with immediate recognition.

She greeted me with my real name and proceeded to shuffle across the open space. "There was a package at your door, dear," she said, handing it to me. I wondered how she got in, before I remembered that I'd given her a key just in case. It was for emergencies, but I guess she'd forgotten about that bit.

"Thanks, Mrs. Shaw..." I took the box from her, and, to my surprise, they was quite some weight to it. I wasn't expecting a package, and that was the first red flag. The second red flag was that the bottom of the box felt almost... moist. She smiled widely, expectantly. She wanted me to open it. She was as curious as I was. But I knew better. I set the package on my kitchen table with a huff, and turned to her. "Did you need something? Need me to put together more furniture?" I hesistated before adding, "Need a catsitter?" I'm good with cats.

"I was hoping you'd drive me to the grocery store." Mrs. Shaw said, slipping some gas money into my hands. "I hate to trouble you, but I do get so lonely." As solitary as I like to be, as secluded of a life I seem to live, I could connect with this woman. We were both lonely.

Besides, my pantry was completely depleted. "Sure," I said, "Just let me grab my keys." I'd save the unexpected package for later, however much the curiousity was killing me. I walked into my room, and grabbed the keys off of my desk. Skype's icon was orange in the corner of my desktop and I cast a quick look back at the door. Mrs. Shaw could wait a second.

"Haven't heard from you in three days. Hit me up some time," the text read. It was from Russ. I decided that I would reply when I got back. There wasn't much sense in saying, 'sorry, gotta go.' Besides, he might get a good laugh about me playing chauffeur for an elderly woman. I slid my keyboard back under my desk and reunited with Mrs. Shaw by my front door.

"You've got a lot of odd things in your house," she commented. Right. This was her first time in my house. As with everyone who first steps into my home, they noticed my 'collection' of items. They wouldn't seem odd by themselves, but together they seemed downright bizarre. I must look like I'm a hoarder. There were more books, posters, statuettes, throwing knives, and other assorted things lining the counters and shelves and tables of my living room. They were interesting. "They're nice," she says, and I can't tell if she's being genuine or just acting polite.

I hold open the front door for her and she shuffles out. I cast one more look down the hallway leading to my room being flicking the light switch and sending it into the darkness. I shut and lock the door, and it clicked with a stubborn noise. Mrs. Shaw was already next to my car, waiting patiently for me to unlock the passenger side for her.

x

The drive was uneventful, quiet besides the polite chit-chat that Mrs. Shaw incited. She had me take her to a small market in the city. There were closer grocers, but this was her favorite and she requested we go here everytime. "Their fresh doughnuts are worth the drive," she would say, trying to convince me.

We pulled into the parking lot. Finding a parking place was easy, as the market was practically deserted. Only a few other cars swam in the sea of yellow lines. I turned off the car, fumbling my keys into my pocket. "Meet here in a half-hour?" I said. I might've driven Mrs. Shaw here, but she wasn't my mother. I had my own groceries to get. She nodded, and we parted.

Stepping inside the building, I received a heavy splash of warm air. The store was blindingly white from the floor to the ceiling, broken only by the colorful products on the shelves. I pciked up a handbasket and set to work. I grabbed soups and breads and cereal. Milk, eggs, and even the doughnuts Mrs. Shaw praised found their way into my basket as well.

Reaching for some bacon, I spotted a worker eyeing me up. I only glanced at him, and he turned away quickly and without a word. I looked down at myself self-consciously to make sure I wasn't in my boxers. Nope. A grey tee and some jeans. Not particularly flattering jeans, either. Perhaps I looked like a sketchy character?

Shit. I am a sketchy character. Well, no. Don't get me wrong here. I came to the market with a little old lady and I'm picking up some milk and eggs. That doesn't scream, 'criminal!' But I must look anxious, on edge, guilty. The kind of guilty that says, 'I might've committed vicarious homicide recently!' That, coupled with the fact that I hadn't been shaving and I looked a little scruffy might've caused his eyes to catch on me.

I did my best to ignore it as I piled bacon and meats into my basket, but then I heard it. A television. The man was watching it, his eyes having been dragged off of me. I dropped the package of bacon and my attention was drawn in. The blonde woman from before took up half of the screen. She looked tidier this time, more together. Behind her were flashing images, and it took me a second to register what it was.

"...graffiti has been popping up all over the city these last few days, and it carries one familiar message. 'Let's Play.' These haunting words have been spray painted onto public buildings and roads. For those viewers unaware, these were the words left behind by the person responsbile for the death of local resident Julian Fox. Police ask citizens to be cautious when leaving there homes..." She trailed on, but I zoned out. Behind her flashed another image, and another. All of them read the same thing. The shadow had been busy.

"Do you think it's a power thing? That he wants us to know he's here, walking among us?" The man said, his eyes catching mine oogling the television. "He wants us to know that he hasn't been found..." His musings frightened me.

I managed to give the polite response: a little nod. "Could be," I said in a voice that came out as a weak croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. This time it came out okay, but uncomfortably close to my normal voice. My chest clenched, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He was lost in the screen, already forgetting me. I dismissed myself and walked into an aisle. I gulped air as if it were water. The shadow was growing pushier, and who knows how long it would be until he struck again. With or without me. Maybe against me.

I decided that the more time I spent in the city, the riskier it was. I checked out, exchanged polite words with the cashier, and started to find my way back to my car. I saw a dark, hunched shape by the car and I thought it was Mrs. Shaw. But she was trying to get into my car, even though it was locked and I'd told her to wait. I was about to call to her when the shape raised something in the air. And then there was a sharp thud and tinkling.

Someone was smashing my window. "Hey, asshole!" I shouted, unable to keep my cool. This guy had a weapon in hand, and I was openly challenging him. I realized not a second after the words escaped my lips that I regretted them. He stopped, his arm inside my vehicle, and sized me up under the dim overhead lights. He must've figured he could take me, because he was approaching. He was a wide man, and I, a much narrower man.

He came closer, until I could see him under the lamps. He didn't seem to care that we were in a parking lot in front of a store and all of its employees. If facial hair was scruffy, this man was the scruffiest. Bits of broken glass clung to his beard like breadcrumbs. Deep sunken eyes burrowed into mine as he towered over me. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry. Shit.

My name was called from behind me somewhere, but it seemed far away and garbled. "Hey, asshole." The man mimicked me, laughing and holding his crowbar up. "Why don't you and grandma take a hike." My arms were full of paper grocery bags, filled with really non-useful things. Eggs and milk and bacon could not be used as weapons.

If was like I wasn't even there anymore, but almost like I was watching it happen. I calmly set down my bags, to his delight. I heard my name echoing in my ears, but I ignored it. I punched the hoodlum in the jaw. He stumbled to the side with a smirk. Unexpected. "So you want to play, huh?" The word, 'play,' snapped something in me, something that I didn't know was there.

He swung the crowbar at me, and it hit me squarely in the chest. The breath rushed from my body, and I almost fell backward from the pain. He readied another swing, but this time I was ready. I caught it just inches from my face. It took him a second to register that his attack didn't go as expected. During this time, I landed another punch to his ugly mug. He was big, but he was also slow.

The hoodlum wrenched the crowbar out of my grip and tried again, spitting blood onto the concrete. New pain blossomed in my chest as he landed another hit. I was practically wheezing, and the air felt like I was breathing soup. Instead of flinging the crowbar at me again, he landed a punch. It crushed my glasses, sending more glass onto the ground. He wound up to attack me again, and I braced. He swung, and I grabbed it.

It took only a second, but I managed to yank the crowbar out of his sweaty, meaty grip.

x

I don't remember much of what happened then. Mrs. Shaw told me later that I, "showed him who's boss." By that, she means that I assualted him with the crowbar until the police came and pulled me off of the whimpering man. It was officially ruled as self-defense, though I was pretty over-kill about it. I spent most of that night in the police station, entertaining questioning from officers from all sides. Mrs. Shaw spoke in my defense, saying that I was protecting her. I don't think I was, but I might've been. Just a bit.

We were finally released at about half past three in the morning. An officer had offered to drive Mrs. Shaw home, but she refused him. She had said she trusted me to take her. My glasses were wrecked, the driver's side window on my car was obliterated, and my ribs felt like they had been replaced with knives. Each breath came in ragged, quiet gulps. I felt like shit, no two ways about it. Mrs. Shaw rested a hand on my right arm as I drove her home. "That was very brave of you, young man."

I don't think it was bravery, no. If anything, it was blind stupidity. I walked right into the conflict, and I deserved every aching breath and blink. I still uttered a thank you to her, regardless. I would have to get new glasses, and call the insurance company about a replacement window. The breeze that flowed through the open hole was refreshing, but it looked a little too much like I'd gotten into a car wreck. I did too, but, that was beside the point.

I walked Mrs. Shaw back to her house, and I helped carry her groceries into her kitchen. Her cats sniffed her curiously, but ran from me like I looked like a bloody, black-eyed monster. I supposed I was one. She apologized for the trouble she'd caused tonight, and she let me out. "It's nothing," I lied. It was something. "Anytime, Mrs. Shaw. 'Night."

I was halfway down her drive when she called out to me, "Goodnight, Cry." She shut the door behind her, and I stopped. A little smile spread across my face. That was the first time she'd used my internet alias. I wondered how she knew it, but dismissed it as trivial. She'd probably seen it on some papers on my table, or something. I knew she would keep my secret... she probably just thought it was a nickname my friends called me.

I carried my own groceries into my house, shutting the door behind me with a final thud. The existing crack in the frame shuddered, but did not move more. I dropped my bags on the kitchen floor and took my time organizing them onto shelves and into cabinets. Tonight was not a complete trainwreck, I decided. My shelves were lined with food, and I'd almost forgotten about the shadow plaguing me.

That was, until, I noticed the cardboard box still sitting on the table. In all honesty, I didn't want to touch that thing anymore. I sat at the table for several minutes, deliberating. Should I open it? It was addressed to me. The bottom of the box had dried, but it looked discolored and warped. The tape was beginning to curl on the edges after having gotten wet. It was practically begging to be ripped open.

I did look inside the box that night. I regret it, that's for sure. Inside, was a note and... something else. A soaked wallet, and wadded up under that was a bloody tee-shirt. In a plastic bag under the shirt, I found a plastic bag filled with fifty dollars. I grimaced at the stink of the package, and picked up the note. "Here's some souveniers from our good friend, mister Fox." Oh, God, no.

"PS: Check under the couch," It ended. I shivered violently, and it felt like my heart was going to burst. This box. My couch. God, my head. The shadow knew where I lived... My eyes dragged across the couch in the next room and I re-read the line again and again and again before standing, shakily, and making my way over.

I got down on the floor and looked under the sofa, but I couldn't see in the dark. I knew there was something, but I didn't know what. It took all of my strength to move the couch. I stood there for several minutes, taking in the message.

"LET'S PLAY, CRY," was painstakingly carved into my hardwood floor.


	4. Part Four: Blame

I had begun to question everything. Not only had my shadow found out where I lived, he had also gotten inside my house. But it was more than that to me. He didn't just pop in for a moment, he had come in and he had lurked inside for hours- days, maybe- undetected. I couldn't help but myself finally finding sleep as the shadow slipped through an open window. He might've looked at me, watched me as I slept. He might have then crept silently down the hall, possibly taking a moment to look through my things. Ultimately, he would find my throwing knives and a crooked idea would sprout inside his wicked little head.

He might have pondered where to leave his message. Somewhere I wouldn't find it until he wanted me to. Somewhere I wouldn't look unless prompted. I imagined him sliding the heavy couch out of the way and sitting in the darkness of my empty living room. He toiled, and he worked, madly running the blade through the floorboards until his hands were bloody and blistered from the effort. When he was finally satisfied with his handiwork, he pulled the couch back into place. He set my knife back with its brothers. Maybe he came to my room again. Maybe he'd said good night to me.

I tried to shake the thoughts away, but they kept flowing back to the forefront of my mind. I stared at the deep indents in the wood for what seemed to be an eternity. It was just one of many repetitive messages the shadow had left for me, but this one held so much more between its letters. He wanted me to know that he had control over me, that he was a real threat to me. Oh, I knew.

All I can remember thinking is, 'what if he's still here?' He could very well have been right there, in my living room. He could've been lurking in the darker corners of my attic, or under my bed like the monsters I knew as a child. But this monster was very real, and he could not be killed by a simple nightlight or words from my mother.

I searched the house until the first rays of morning sun illuminated each darkened nook and cranny. I couldn't find any traces of the shadow, and I couldn't decide if this calmed me or unsettled me further. I contemplated calling the police, telling myself that this was far too close to home for comfort. Up until this point, the shadow had just been a stranger. And now, he was a stranger who knew I was afraid of him, who knew how to get to me. I quickly realized that calling for help would not be the best idea. Not only because I had evidence of Julian Fox's murder sitting on my kitchen table, but something told me that bringing this to the attention of the police would not fit into the shadows rules of play. That would be cheating.

Cheating would only make him angry, as would stalling on my turn. The game had to go on, I knew. I had been away from Youtube for days, and the shadow was getting anxious for his turn to make a move. Messages of 'get better soon!' and 'hope you're okay!' were beginning to clog my already-full inboxes. They were concerned, my followers, but it fell on deaf ears. I wasn't okay. I wouldn't get better soon. I wondered what they would think of me, and what they would say if they learned what was really happening on this side of the screen.

I wasn't yet satisfied that I was safe in my house, but I needed to try. I needed to pretend. I pulled off my shirt with a tremendous effort. My ribs felt like they were being crushed under the weight of a freight train whenever I moved. I inspected my body in the bathroom mirror. Large, discolored bruises dappled my chest with ugly shades of red and purple. My nose was swollen and a little crooked looking, and small cuts from the glass dotted my pale face like freckles. Dark, puffy circles clung to the undersides of my dull-looking eyes, straining to focus without my glasses in the dim light.

I looked like I was dead already; run down and beaten. I sniffed, but all I could smell was the sharp, iron scent of dried blood. "You look good," I lied, hoping to fool myself into believing it, "Rugged, that's the word." Oh, I definitely looked rugged. If rugged meant that I looked like I'd been in a plane crash.

A hot shower would make me feel better, I decided. The water relieved the pain from my aching body, if only for a moment.. It offered some temporary release, to rest my pounding head against the cold, blue tiles. I stood there swimming in my thoughts until the water ran cold, and even then I was reluctant to leave. I finally dragged myself out of the steamy chamber, and wrapped my body in a fluffy teal towel. All of the thinking I did left my head as I stepped from the room.

I might have been fresh in body, but not in mind. Although I was exhausted, I knew attempting sleep would have been stupid. There was no way in hell I'd be able to rest knowing that the shadow was so close on my heels.

I... I was vulnerable. I have never felt so vulnerable. It was as if the barrel of a gun were pressed to my head, the shadow urging me to press play again. I had to do something, something to appease him. Anything to put off him pulling the trigger, if only for a little while. Call me a selfish prick, call me evil... Call me what you will, but know that I had to do it.

x

I sat alone in my darkened room, solemnly opening the game file. Just once more, I promised, one more time. I tried to rationalize it. The terrible thing was that I knew that he wouldn't accept anything less than another life. He would likely punish me if I played backwards. One wrong move, and it could be me that they found dead under an overpass with a teasing little note pinned to my chest.

I pressed play. I walked the dimly lit streets of the city. My city. Each building was crafted to look like its real life counterpart, and they all towered over me. The infamous yellow hatchet was sitting in my backpack, primed for more use. Although it was clean of blood and grime, I felt dirty just carrying it. Along with it were a switchblade, a hammer, pen and paper, and a flashlight.

The city was in a state of unrest. Officers patrolled on the busier streets; the game was definitely getting harder. The more attention I drew to myself, the quieter I would be required to be. I eyed a policeman as I walked down the opposite side of the street. He didn't see to notice me, or, if he did, he didn't care. So they weren't the most attentive guards. That was good.

The only people out on the streets tonight were the officers and those people who didn't believe in the warnings. Well, and then there was me. The reluctant killer, scoping out his next victim. I wandered for a long time before I finally saw her. She was sitting outside s closed-up pharmacy, shouting into her cell. Clenched in her other hand was a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

"I don't care, Jerry!" She raged on, "Get the fuck out of my house! You and that skank-" She flung the whiskey bottle into the road, and it shattered into a thousand seaglass-green pieces. Murky liquid flowed across the dark pavement in waves. "-can die for all I care!" She slammed her cell shut, and soon that was in the road, too. The woman devolved into a series of angry huffs and guttural noises before her glossy green eyes landed on me. "Hey. You."

I didn't speak, but I walked closer. I could see now that her face was bright red, smudged black with wet makeup and what looked like soot. Her clothes were revealing and tight. The woman took me in with a glazed-over look. "Could you show me the way to the nearest hotel?" She looked like she would say more, but she ended up not. I nodded, and started to lead her. But not to a hotel.

Although she had only drunk half the bottle, the woman was drunk enough not to realize where we were heading. Though, she was just sober enough to try to start a conversation with me. "Are you some kinda mute? What are those guys called...?" The woman slurred for a second, before trying again, "A m-mime? Are you a mime?" I grumbled inwardly. Did I look like a fucking mime? She continued to ramble on about her cousin who wanted to be a mime, but eventually the cousin gave up. Being a mime was an unforgiving job, apparently. She drunkenly commended me for my silent dedication to the craft.

"Anyway, my name is Melody. Gank." _Gank?_ It sounded less like a surname and more like she was gagging on her tongue. We were on the east side of town, now. Police patrols were lessened there, it seemed, and there were more alleyways- "What's your name, no-tongue-man?" I sighed heavily, but her glossy green eyes begged me for an answer. But I couldn't speak to her. I took out my pens and paper, and wrote on it. I guess anything was better than no-tongue-man.

"Your name is Alex?" No, it isn't, but it can be. Just for now. We rounded a corner, into an alleyway. The lights seemed to dance away from us, as if they knew what was coming next. As if they knew what I would do. "My mom's name is Alex," she continued to babble. I don't blame Jerry for looking at other options. We came to the end of the alleyway, but she was oblivious. I think she had forgotten about the hotel. "It's a nice name."

I took out my pens again and wrote, "Let's play a game." I gently pressed my index finger to her lips with a silent shush. She obeyed with a nod and an exaggerated smile. Her breath reeked of the whiskey on her tongue. I then shut my eyes to mime it for her. She repeated, keeping her eyes shut tight. This was too easy, way too easy. "What are we playing, Alex?" A part of me felt bad for taking advantage of a drunken woman. It was, however, survival of the fittest... or, in this case, the most aware.

The blunt end of the hatchet connected with her skull and she crashed heavily to the pavement. I checked her breathing. She was still alive, but she was definitely out like a light. Blood matted her tangled hair with crimson, and, although I should have been filled with relief, I was instantly filled with dread. My stomach churned, my eyes stung. Regret was wrapping its spindly fingers around my throat as I retched.

For several minutes afterward, I sat slumped against the wall next to her. "She's not even real!" I hissed through gritted teeth, wiping my wet face on my sleeve. She wasn't for now, sure. But come tomorrow, would there be a real Melody dead by the wayside somewhere? My stomach protested the thought, threatening to make me sick again. Julian... Killing Julian had not been as hard as this. "You're too soft...!" It should not have been so difficult to save myself.

I dragged my eyes to her bloodied form, lying sprawled on the ground beside me. She looked oddly at peace, her breathing shallow and slow but ever steady. She almost looked as if she were sleeping, a completely different woman than the screaming mess gargling whiskey only minutes ago. "...Damn it." I could have stayed there until her breath stopped the timely rise and fall of her chest, but I didn't. With effort, I picked her up in my arms.

Believe me, I knew exactly what I was risking. Until Melody collapsed, I was hell-bent on taking her life. Gladly exchanging it for mine. I was confident that it was the right choice. That is, until I saw her lying there on the pavement, stubbornly clinging to what life she had left. I just couldn't leave her there, even if she was just a crumpled, bloody pile of pixels on a screen in my bedroom. I carried her to the nearest hospital. Shocked nurses took Melody from my arms, and rushed her through some heavy, swinging doors.

I stared blankly at the screen. I had tried to take another life, and that thought gave me mixed emotions. Tried, and failed. Or, more accurately, tried and pansied out halfway through. A heaving sigh shook my battered body. I wondered what would happen if I posted this. More unsavory packages sent to my door? More carvings decorating my floor? Worse, I imagined.

The idea came, and it came swiftly. With a glance over my shoulder, I opened up my editing software and clipped off the last moments of footage. The video would end right when the hatchet connected to the girl's skull. I spent moments studying the hit, and it seemed believable enough. Heavy breathing, thwack, and down she tumbled. Watching it again made my stomach twist into knots. The shadow would be pleased with me.

x

It was noon, and I still had not slept at all. Editing had taken me until late morning, and I'd spent the rest of my time lying in bed. Sleep would not find me, no matter how available I made myself. My pain in my chest had begun to grow even more intolerable, and my eyes felt like they were full of glitter, but the worst feeling of all was the stubborn pain in my head. It was like a tiny man was pounding on my forehead, and he was determined to break out of my aching cranium.

I heard Skype burble cheerily from my computer, which seemed an ocean of blankets away. Oh, right. I hadn't gotten back to my friends in days. They deserved some kind of explanation for my recent absence. I pried myself from the comfort of the sheets, holding my chest as I made the trek to my desk.

Scott, Russ, and Pewds. Messages from all three, though only one was sent recently. "Sup, guys?" I started to type, "Sorry for my lack of being there lately. Life's dealt me a pretty bizarre hand this week." I almost went further, but stopped myself when I saw Scott typing.

"It happens, man," Scott replied, then added, "Were you out with your_ girlfriend_ again?" Very funny, Jund. By girlfriend, he was referring to Mrs. Shaw, of course. I'm kind of glad I didn't have a girlfriend. It would've complicated matters, in hindsight.

"I took her out grocery shopping just last night, actually." I always played along with Jund, because it was actually pretty clever of him. "I should get a fucking medal for it, too."

"How romantic," Russ teased, "What'd you do, carry her shopping bags? Hold open the car door for her?"

"Some jerkass was breaking into my car, and my mouth earned me a crowbar to the chest. I've got to buy new glasses and the window on my car is wrecked," I responded, omitting the part where I came home to such a lovely, lovely carving in my floor. I left out the part where I spent hours scouring my home for its maker. I failed to tell them about my adventures in attempted murder to satisfy some crazy stranger, as well.

"Wow, man," Scott typed, "Anything broken?" Well, you could say I was broken. I was vulnerable, I was sore. I was so very tired. My life was broken, and I wanted things to get back to normal. But to fix it demanded that I break it even more. So, yes.

"No broken ribs," I said simply, "Just a lot of bruising, and it hurts like hell. On the bright side, though, I recorded a video today. I'm back on my game, I think." It felt good to say so, but I'm not totally sure that I meant it yet.

Pewds was staying quiet, but it was easy to imagine him sitting there wondering if what I said was true. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head, trying to piece it together. There was a pause from Russ and Scott before my cell rang from the other side of the room. Without getting up, I knew it would be Felix on the other end. I stood, found the phone sitting on my pillow, and pressed its cold surface to my ear. "Yes?"

"We need to talk," he said seriously, "I received a package from you today."

From _me?_ My mind turned to the box still sitting on my kitchen table, and my heart started to beat hard against my aching ribs. "Um... Did you open it already?"

"Not yet... Did you really send this thing?" There was a little sliver of worry in his voice. I understood. He didn't want to scare his girlfriend or her parents. They might not take it well if they found out some psychopath was claiming he was me and sending them unsavory presents.

"No, I didn't..." I sat down on my bed. "I got a package last night, too. ...It had Julian's shirt and wallet in it."

Pewds stayed quiet for a moment, considering my words. "Maybe I'll find his pants inside," he laughed nervously and I could hear him quietly shuffling the box around on the other end of the line. "I guess it can't hurt to open it..." I remained quiet and he tore open the taped sides of the cardboard box.

"_Well?_" I prompted, my curiousity getting the better of me. He struggled to grasp the right words.

"It's a hand. A left one, pointing," came the answer. A few more shuffles. "It's got one of those little red reminder threads around its index finger."

I rubbed my forehead. Pewds seemed to be taking this with a remarkably level head, but I was more frustrated and sickened than ever. "Why would he send you that?"

"Wait, there's a note in here, too." Oh, that was just what I'd needed: more letters from my forced pen pal. There was a long pause, and the line grew tense.

"What does it say?" I said slowly.

"Liar," he answered. "It says,_ 'liar.'_"


	5. Part Five: Gunslinger

A webpage describing the symbolic differences between the left hand and the right laid open on my computer screen. On the second screen was the picture Pewds had sent me of the package. I had poured over this for an hour, and all I had earned for it was a massive headache and a piece of scratch paper covered in probably nonsensical facts about hands.

The left hand was used primarily for holding up shields in ancient times, as opposed to a sword. The left is seen as the receiving hand, and the right as the giving hand. One of the websites urged me to trace my hands and 'color them in a meditative, free-associative state...' I didn't. There was also something about Satanic rituals and 'sex magic' in there somewhere. That didn't seem relevant to my cause.

I don't drink coffee, but Mrs. Shaw had brought me some that afternoon. I took it politely, but now it sat untouched and cold next to the mouse. I groaned, clicking away from the useless page and looked at the picture again. My stomach twisted at the first sight of it, but I'd grown used to it's bloody, gnarled fingers in the last hour. It was a woman's hand, pointing to the right. Its outstretched index finger had a tightly tied red string around it- Pewds had referred to it as a 'reminder thread.' On crumbled paper next to it was the word, 'liar,' scribbled in thick, black ink. Well, the shadow's vocabulary had increased, at least.

I blinked my tired, dark eyes. They wanted nothing more than to close and let me sleep for a while, but I needed to figure this out. I pushed the thought of the hand away and thought of the thread. Was the shadow reminding himself of something? Or me? It definitely jogged my memory- swinging the hatchet, connecting with Fox's chest, red everywhere, blood on my hands -but was that the point?

I gripped my head in my hand and angrily sipped the cold coffee. And why call me a liar? I wasn't lying. What would I lie about? What reason did the shadow have to accuse me of?

Accuse. The pointed finger: a symbol of accusation. I slammed the coffee down, spilling a bit on the desk in my excitement. "That's too simple," I muttered, wiping up the drops with my sleeve. Although I'd realized that, it didn't help me out much. After a few more minutes of numb tinkering, I made myself take a break. It would be useless to try to think with a tired brain.

The next part of Descending was up on my channel, now. My subscribers were pleased to see me back, predictably, but they were concerned. Apparently, I wasn't myself in the newest video. Still, they seemed quick to dismiss this. They were just happy that there was a video.

I watched the last few moments of it again. "What are we playing, Alex?" A hesitant pause, a hearty thwack. Oh, yeah. Melody. I felt guilty for forgetting her. The video had been up for an hour or two. Was that enough time? I opened Google again.

"Hospital, head trauma, Melody," I typed. A few articles came up, but only one caught my eye. "Mother of two found dead," the article headline read. Under the large words was a picture, one that made me turn away from the screen.

The girl looked like Melody, her body intact save for a missing left hand. Thick blood stuck to her dark, curly hair, and mascara marred her pale face. I placed a hand against the screen to hide it from myself. Were they really supposed to put that on the internet?

I continued to read, keeping my hand over the gruesome image. "Identified as Melody [last name withheld], this mother was found dead this afternoon outside Northside Hospital. Investigators believe she died after a hit to the head with a blunt object. Her left hand was removed post-mortem for reasons unknown. Her husband, an early suspect, refuses to comment on their marital issues."

"Fuck Jerry," I grumbled quietly.

"A note was found near the body, suggesting a possible connection to the Let's Play killer. The note reads, 'Let's play a game.' Is it the same man, or simply a copy-cat?"

"Both," I groaned frustratedly, pressing my warm forehead to the desk. My eyes looked up at the second screen, and I wonder how Pewds received that package so quickly. He was living in Italy, and I in America. Not to mention, the murder could have only taken place in the last couple hours. "Impossible," I grumbled.

My eyes scanned the top of the article for a date. They found one, but that was three days earlier. I bit my lip. This had to be Melody, and yet I'd only seen her yesterday. Wasn't it? Yesterday? "This is impossible." I clasped my forehead in my hands.

"What's impossible, dear?" The voice scared me, but I turned to find a very non-threatening Mrs. Shaw standing in my doorway with yet another cup of coffee. I stood, to hide the screens plastered with bloody bodies and also my barely touched, existing mug.

"This... logic puzzle a friend sent me," I struggled for the words, slowly pushing the cup back between piles of things on my desk. "I'm just a little frustrated over it, is all."

"Ah, well, I brought you some more coffee, hero." Hero? Ha. What had I managed to save, exactly? The car was wrecked, I was wrecked, some big guy earned a lot of dents in his face because of me- two people were dead because of me. I had done a lot of anti-hero work, if you asked me.

I took the hot mug from her frail hands politely, and this must have given her just enough of an opening to see what was on the screens. "Oh, my. Is this the puzzle? This... severed hand?"

"Um." All the heat seemed to drain from my body, the only warmth left was in my hands from the steaming mug. I didn't want her to see it. I didn't want her to get involved, and yet, I mumbled, "Yes, that's it." There was a little shred of something in me that desperately wanted to share the burden.

"This is what you're having trouble with?" Mrs. Shaw pushed me gently to the side, being careful to avoid my ribcage, and studied the picture. "This is easy, though... The pointed finger is accusation. Of what, though? The note tells you. Caught in a lie. One finger, I assume to mean, 'first warning,' though that's a guess. The string: it's a reminder. It's also red. Red, blood. Agression, anger, and violence. So, maybe a threat?"

"Oh," I cut her off loudly, "I didn't realize you were so good at that." Of course. Of course, that's what it meant. The shadow knew I didn't kill Melody... He caught me in a lie, caught me cheating. It was my first offense, my first warning. The reminder thread? A reminder of what the shadow might do to cheaters.

Mrs. Shaw smiled softly. "All it is, is practice."

"Thank you."

I sipped the coffee, and she patted my shoulder. "You should take a break. You've been awake since yesterday." You're not my mother, I wanted to say. I didn't need a break. I was a machine. Okay, kind of a broken down machine as of late, but a machine all the same. I could go for days. "Please," she insisted, "You'll feel better if you rest." Maybe it was the coffee warming my chest or my heavy eyelids weighing me down, but I was easy to convince.

x

Suddenly, I was running, sprinting. My chest felt like it was on fire, filled like a hot air balloon and ready to pop. My ribcage shuddered with every uneven breath, growing more painful with every step. Air struggled to find my gasping mouth, and I stumbled heavily on the lip of the sidewalk. I didn't know why I was running, just that I must not stop. A whistle sounded behind me, kicking me with new adrenaline. My steps were clumsy and air-deprived, but I kept going.

A loud blast fired somewhere behind me, and I felt hot liquid spring from my shoulder. My grey sleeve started to show a blunt red streak, and I realized I'd been grazed by a bullet. I clutched my wound in my other hand, and continued running. The wound pounded and stung even more with every heavy step a made. Slap, slap. The sound of converse on the streets echoed through the darkness, accompanied by my jagged breaths.

Finally, I had lost my pursuer. I sat slumped behind a dumpster in an alleyway, grasping my shoulder with all my strength. I quietly sucked air for several moments, trying to get my bearings. A light steam rose from my lips and into the chilly air, and I prayed it would not give me away. Why was I being chased? Why did he shoot me? My thoughts swam in liquid confusion. I noticed a heaviness on my back and around my neck, and for the first time I looked.

A camera was strung around my neck, another strap hanging from its side. I turned it on, hoping it would reveal something of what I'd forgotten. Its screen flashed and lit up, allowing me to check its contents. A video was the newest entry, marked was I believed to be that day's date. I pressed play.

The video rolled, and it looked to be a continuation of a previous clip. It was darkened, and the camera seemed to be moving around a lot. Around my neck it would've been thrown around a lot, I decided. The shot steadied enough for me to realize what was happening on the screen. The man behind the camera was in a house, dimly lit at best. A hatchet hung from his grip and he had laid my sights on a door.

Without hesitation, he approached the door and it took another second for the screen to settle. The hatchet raised beyond the shot and then it came slamming down, into the wood of the door. It was yanked free and slammed into the door again and again. It reminded me of that scene from The Shining. The wood splintered, and a whimper sounded from the other side which caused the man to give momentary pause.

He laughed quietly to himself before landing another solid hit. The gaping hole in the door was big enough now to reach in and unlock the door. His left hand reached in and there was a soft click. Scree-eek. The door swung open slowly to show a neatly arranged bed room. The camera bounced against the mans chest, panning to a young woman in the corner clutching a switch blade.

"Don't hurt me," she hissed, flashing the knife. The man seemed undeterred, and staggered closer. The woman gathered some of her nightgown in her free hand, "Don't make me-"

"Make you what, Cassidy?" The man answered, in a gruff tone that I knew too well. I bit my lip uncomfortably, but continued to watch.

The woman looked taken aback. "How...?" Her grip on the blade faltered, but she regained it when the man tried to close the distance between them. "Stay b-back!" She waved the blade madly, adrenaline spurring on her feeble movements. The camera inched closer, seemingly oblivious to the swinging blade. The camera leaned at a strange angle, and with a heavy groan fell the hatchet's blade.

There was a disgusting noise and I had to look away, a hand clasped over my mouth. A whimper broke the momentary pause, but it was halted by another swing. I dared a look back to the screen, now covered in what I didn't want to call blood. The man poked the hatchet lightly into his victim's red-stained collarbone, nudging her to the side. Her head fell against her chest, limp. No breathing, no movement. "Heh," the voice chuckled, "Goodnight, Ms. Craft." He knelt by the body, and held the camera up to his face. His blood-smeared, yet horribly familiar face.

It was a face that not many could name. I stared back into his darkened eyes as the man on film wiped the screen clean. There was no regret lingering in his eyes, like this was nothing of consequence. His nose was crooked, and small cuts freckled his pale cheeks. The footage cut out after the man... _I_ flashed the camera a quick, sharp-toothed smile.

x

I sat bolt upright in bed, the thick sheets gripped tightly in my fists. My breaths came in heavy, unbridled waves past my chapped lips. I let go of the sheets, and reached a hand up to my face to hide my wet eyes. "_Just a nightmare,_" the words tumbled out, as unsteady as my mind. "It's not real. It's _not_ real... You'll _see_ that it's not real."

"Just a..." My body was shaking as I took my other hand, and ran it up under my sleeve. Anxious fingers searched for any trace of the bullet's grazing. A gasp of relief emptied my lungs of air as they traced their way over my shoulder, finding nothing. I was about to take my arm from my sleeve, when my finger trailed across something wet and sticky. "_...dream._"

The room seemed to start spinning in slow motion, and my head protested with more pounding. I ripped off my shirt in a panic, and flung the dirty thing across the room. I pulled the arm across my chest to look at it. Sure enough, there was a wet slice across the flesh, from which blood had sprung.

"It's not real," I feebly tried to convince myself, still, "It couldn't be... It can't- fucking-" I threw off the covers and raced to the bathroom mirror, the room continuing to sway. My eyes found the mirror, and I took it all in. When I had clasped my face in my hands, I had thought it was tears that wet my face. Now it was plain to see that it was blood splattered generously across my cheeks.

I gripped the edge of the sink in my now-bloody hands. "He's just playing off of your stress..." He was doing a damn good job at it, too. I splashed cold water on my face, and the red ran down my pale features. Blood dripped from my chin and it was washed down the drain. I wondered if it was Cassidy's or mine. I wondered if this was even real. It was getting hard to tell the difference.

Satisfied, I opened the cabinet behind the mirror and removed some bandages. I carefully started to wrap the stinging slice on my arm._ Just what I need_, I thought, _more injuries._

"_Oh,_ dear!" The shout startled me, and I ended up slamming the mirror closed. The thin surface shook violently, but did not crack. I turned sharply to see Mrs. Shaw rushing through the doorway. "What happened to you?"

A barrage of hands met my bare skin, and I shrunk back from her gentle touch. "It's nothing, I just... fell out of bed." She didn't look satisfied by my excuse, and continued to tinker with the bandage on my arm. "Really, Mrs. Shaw... I'm fine." The word,_ 'liar,'_ echoed in my mind. I couldn't even fool myself. I was far from fine.

Her glossy eyes met my mine, and there was something there. Something that looked like understanding. She withdrew her hands. "I'm worried about you." It was funny to hear that. She was old and frail, with more health concerns than I knew, and I was young and supposedly strong. And yet _she_ was concerned for _me_. I suppose I gave her good reason to be.

"Don't worry about me. I am completely, perfectly fine."


	6. Part Six: Sentinel

Author's Note: This chapter is 100% introduction and fluff. It's a little shorter than previous chapters. Sorry for such a long break between chapters, I'll have time and motivation to write this weekend. :D

I sat on my couch, fighting off the inevitable sleep creeping into my eyes. I was unwilling to shut them for more than a few seconds, out of fear of what could happen. My thoughts, of course, were ever on that face. Cassidy, shrinking into the corner. Dying. Was she real? Or was she just something that I dreamt up out of stress? The blood that painted my face and the rip into of my arm were certainly not just the products of a dream.

I had accredited those to the shadow. I refused to believe that I had sleepwalked my way on to a murder scene. The only way I could rationalize it was that the shadow had staged it, somehow. The blood and the bullet wound and the dream? Simply another means of control, of punishment, planted in the night. None of it was real.

My thoughts were cut short by a knock at the door. I wasn't expecting a visitor, and that sent my mind tumbling into a cautious rampage. I stayed still on the couch, hoping that I was not seen there. I wanted nothing more than to be left alone. I felt safer alone.

But the visitor kept knocking. He was persistent, and the thudding on the door eventually lured me from my seat. I approached cautiously, not quite sure what I would be meeting.

I was greeted by a taller, looming form. The frosted glass obscured his features, but I could tell well enough that he was not a harmless old woman. I opened the door with measured hesitation, expecting the man to break out a Bible at any moment and invite himself in to talk to me about church. It happened more often that you'd expect.

Curiously, he did neither of these things. He only stared back at me with a soft, almost unaware smile. He had colored ear buds jammed into his ears, but he might as well have been holding a boombox to his head. 'Superstition' was ripping through the air, its volume probably damaging my hearing as well as his. He was older than me, and loomed over me as if I were only a child's height. His hair was a mess of well-groomed, dark curls that framed his pointed face. I've seen soul patches described as "wizardly" before, and if that statement was at all true, this man on my doorstep was definitely and absolutely a wizard.

"Um. Hello," I tried to break the silence between us, but I doubted he could hear me over Stevie Wonder beating on his ear drums. He merely waved his hand dismissively, as if it was I who had knocked on his door and that it was his time that I was wasting. "...Excuse me?" I swallowed nervously, realizing I hadn't tried to hide my voice at all.

It was like he had just realized I existed, and turned down his music. "Geoff Shaw." He held out a hand, which I met tentatively with mine. He shook my hand firmly. I had heard of this Geoff. Mrs. Shaw spoke of her grandson sometimes, but not often. And she must have forgotten to mention that he was a bit... odd. "My grandmother says you could use a friend." His green eyes pried into mine, as if they had caught something lurking there. I quickly stole my gaze away.

I shrunk away from the door frame, surprised and a bit embarrassed she would do that. "Um," was all I could manage to utter. He wasn't particularly threatening, no, but the idea of Mrs. Shaw planning out a blind play date like this for me, her neighbor, was strange to say the least. An old lady convinced her grandson that I was incapable of living alone and sent him over. That's strange.

"She says you-" he stuck his finger into my ribs less than gently, "need a guardian of sorts." I suddenly missed that intrusive little old lady. She had much less pointed fingers than this man, and she mostly kept them to herself. "You've had it pretty rough, I understand, and she doesn't want you to be alone."

"I don't need a babysitter, " I spat, and forced away his bony finger. If I planned to disguise my voice, there went my opportunity. He knew my voice now, but it didn't seem to make a difference to him. Geoff tut-tutted at me.

"Don't think of me as a babysitter. Think of me as your-," He fumbled for just the right words, "-a room-mate."

"Not interested." I started to close the door on the unwelcome visitor, but he was stronger than me. The door remained open. I was glad he wasn't actually peddling Bibles because at this point I would've emptied my wallet just to get him to get off of my porch.

"She said you'd be stubborn. Besides, M- I'm an awesome cook," he added cheerily. I saw his slip of tongue, but it was almost like he didn't notice. If there was one thing I wasn't so good at, it was cooking. And to be honest, I was getting tired of half-assed soup from a can and microwaved blueberry pancakes. I decided that having someone around who had a little cooking experience under their belt couldn't be all bad.

I am easily persuaded by the promise of a hot meal.

Geoff didn't even let me take a breath, and he was already in the door. Heavy looking luggage was suddenly piled on my hardwood floor, and he had gracefully thrown his black, collared jacket onto the neglected coat rack. He was looming over my shelves. They were like magnets; they were always eye-catching. "Why have you got this? And this?" He asked me a question about just about everything. My regret was almost tangible. This was asking a lot of me already. Socializing was not my specialty, not away from the internet.

I had plenty of things to protest about, but I decided that having a room-mate wouldn't be the worst idea. For protection, it was just smart. Not to mention, with the killer hanging about or not, I kind of missed living with my little brother back home. It would be a nice change of pace, to have someone around that was closer to my age than Mrs. Shaw. Even if he was nothing like my brother.

Geoff crashed on the couch, tossing his worn grey converse next to mine by the door. He was obviously at home already. "What should I call you?" He asked, and that took me by surprise. I had assumed Mrs. Shaw would tell him my real name. Or anything at all, really, besides where I lived. He didn't seem to know anything more than the fact that I was having a rough time. Did he know nothing of me? "She says you've got many names... One's as good as the next to me."

That was comforting. This guy- a stranger- didn't even know my name, and yet he was lounging on my couch like he owned the place already. I thought of just giving in and letting him call me by my real name for simplicity's sake. But I almost hated its sound, now, and I buckled. "Cry," I said, "Call me Cry."

Geoff looked over his shoulder at me, surprised. "Cry?" I waited for his judgement. "Cool nickname, man." A silent sigh of relief. A moment of silence hung in the air before the newcomer broke it. Geoff nodded towards the curtained window. "Do you ride?"

"Ride?" I pulled back the darkened shades and saw a shiny, dark blue motorcycle parked next to my battered car. I reminded myself to get that damn window fixed. "No... I don't." Seeing the sparkling machine next to my car made it look even more neglected. I wondered how he got his bags to my house. Certainly not on his motorbike.

"Maybe, I'll teach you if you play your cards right," Geoff mused, tinkering with the volume on his matching blue iPod. He crossed his mile-long legs and rested them lazily on the arm-rest. I swallowed numbly, my thoughts turning to the carving directly below him. I hadn't had the time to do anything about it, and I hoped that Geoff would not find any reasons to move the couch. "So... what happened to you?" He asked without looking up.

"What?" I was broken from my thoughts. I'd have to get used to my mind being subject to new, curious interruptions. I reached a hand up to my face, and gently brushed over the freckle-ing of starting-to-heal-over cuts. It barely hurt anymore, but I could still feel the scabbed-over lines gather and stretch uncomfortably with my facial expressions. "Do you mean this?" I hoped he meant that.

"Well, that, too," Geoff chuckled lightly. "You look like you have had a rough week."

That was for sure. "This was from a fight," I replied, nervously running a hand through my unkempt hair. I didn't want him to think that I was weak. "I'm a little more smashed up than usual, if that's what you're getting at."

"Your glasses, too?" Geoff pointed at my face. He was a man who uses his hands to speak, I realized. Much like me. I almost asked how he knew I had terrible vision before I realized that I was probably squinting at him that whole time in the absence of my specs.

"Yeah," I muttered quietly. I resolved to get some new glasses soon. Maybe I would spring for contacts? It would be one less thing to worry about. I'm terrible at keeping conversation going when I don't have time to focus my thoughts.

But Geoff seemed interested in something else. He says calmly, "I noticed you don't have a security system."

I blinked slowly. Of course I didn't have a security system. Those were expensive, and not to mention they seemed like a pain in the ass to install. I was surprised he noticed that I didn't have one. He didn't seem the type to worry over the possibility of danger. "...And?"

"I really think you should get one. With the... you know," Geoff motioned towards the window like that would have helped me. When I met his sharp eyes with a look of confusion, he continued. "The 'Let's Play' killer. Causing quite a stir out here."

"Oh, yeah. Him." It was hard to imagine that he was really out there and that he was a threat to anyone but me. It really felt that he was only targeting me, personally. Would a security system be cheating? Would it even be enough to matter? I juggled the thoughts in my head.

"Then you wouldn't mind if I...?" The near stranger gestured vaguely, and I nodded my hesitant approval. As long as he did it, could I really be at fault? I decided not. He sat watching me for several more minutes, and I grew uncomfortable with his gaze. He looked as if he would say more, but it wasn't until I stood up to retire to my room that he spoke again. "Thanks for letting me stay... My grandmother wanted someone to watch over you. I know that I may not be the perfect candidate for the job, but she doesn't want me to have to be alone, either. So I appreciate this."

Geoff's eyes seemed to fog a bit, and their piercing green turned a little liquid, like they were swimming in memories. "If you decide that you don't want me here, I'll gladly leave you be." I felt like I should have said something comforting to that, but before I could, his eyes solidified and regained their cheery gleam as the song changed in the air. Home, it was called. Kind of fitting, I thought.

"Don't worry. I'm far from perfect, either." The words slipped quietly from my mouth. He didn't respond, maybe tracing his way through the new melody. "Let me show you to your room," I added. Geoff nodded eagerly. I helped him take up his bags, and I carried them to the spare bedroom off the main hall.

It was small and dusty from neglect, but it would serve its purpose. A small bed stripped to its white sheets was pushed against the north wall. It looked lonely in there. I placed the bags down, and Geoff approached the bed. He swiped a hand over to the sheets. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"I don't have company often," I admitted, "And even less often does that company stay."

Geoff nodded understandingly. "I was the same back home," he mused, looking at the bed longingly as if he had slept about as much as I had these last few nights. I couldn't help but think that this guardianship was meant more for him than for me... and that was perfectly okay.

In inviting this man into my home, I was also inviting a whole new list of potential issues, but he came with benefits as well. For one, it was nice to not be completely alone. To have Geoff here... it put my mind at rest. Maybe this was the beginning of the end.

x

It was only late afternoon, and the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon. I had left Geoff to his own devices. We were living in the same house for the purpose of him keeping an eye on me, but that didn't mean we had to be glued to each other. And we weren't.

Geoff was a quiet, considerate man. He had only been here a few hours, and he hadn't disturbed me once. The soft music that I could sometimes hear from the other end of the house was relaxing. It was a nice change from the normal silence that permeated my home.

His presence made me feel like I was finally able to let my guard down and sleep for the first time in a few days. So I did, before dark had even fallen. If I dreamed, I didn't remember. I rolled over and my rested eyes found the blurry clock which flashed 4:46 AM.

Scents and sounds weaved through the house. The warm scent of pancakes embraced me and lured me from bed. I staggered past my desk, its surface covered with empty bottles and papers covered in ink. I pushed past the door frame, and the aroma led me to my kitchen.

No sunlight entered the room, only the light from the bulb hanging, flickering above. Geoff is rushing around the kitchen with a frying pan in one hand and eggs in the other. The table was covered in food, and grocery bags lined my barren counters.

The man paused to greet me. He was wearing a collared white shirt and a colorful tie. "Pancakes?" He asked, gesturing for me to sit. "I was going to wake you."

I took my seat. I hadn't seen this much food in one place since Christmas dinners with my family. I never had the motivation to cook anything more than a quick meal, let alone breakfast for two. Not that I needed to.

"Just a little thank-you present," Geoff smiled, "I noticed your shelves were a little bare, so I took the liberty of filling them. Then, I... got hungry. Figured you would be, too." He turned off the stove with a steady flick of the wrist, before taking the seat opposite me.

"This is..." I could barely even thank him. This was the most homey and safe that I'd felt in months. I know that sounds silly, saying that when confronted with a table full of what could really only be described as delicacies. But, honestly, this was the greatest kindness I'd be shown in a while. And by a stranger who didn't owe me a thing. "Thank you, Geoff."

He smiled, and we both started to eat. It first proper breakfast since I'd moved in, and it was delicious. Blueberry pancakes made fresh on the griddle... they melted happily in my mouth. If I was harboring any regrets at that point, they were gone.

At the darkened kitchen table at five in the morning, I made a real friend. And he could cook the most delicious pancakes.


	7. Part Seven: Angel

_**Author's Note: **__It's been a long time, and for that I apologize. I've had a very minimal time to write these last few weeks, and the time I did have was watered-down with stress and no motivation. But I'm back, if only to give you one chapter. The next chapter will see less of these character-introductory-type things. Thanks for sticking with me!_

"How long have you been alone?" Geoff bit into a last bite of omelet and eyed me curiously from across the long, filled table.

"Just since earlier this year. I moved out of my mother's house in March," I admitted. It was December now, and I was slowly approaching the anniversary of my leaving. My mother and I still talked, but not since the killings cropped up. I didn't want to involve her or my brother in any of that nonsense.

"And what do you do? Got a job?"

Well, kind of. I wondered if Geoff would understand. I couldn't really lie to the guy, he'd find out sooner or later. "I do work on YouTube. It nets me enough to keep going." Quick to direct something back at him, I added, "And yourself?"

"Well, I've done some freelance journalism. Not so much right now, though." Geoff looked thoughtful, scrutinizing his bare plate. "So, YouTube. You a big channel?"

Shit, well. "Not really, no. But it's fun all the same." He looked interested, but he didn't press further. I thought maybe he understood.

Sunlight was slowly painting the sky a pretty shade of burnt orange as morning crept closer. I couldn't help but feel bittersweet about the passing of another night. It was another night that I was alive, unthreatened, but each day brought with it anxieties galore. I glanced at Geoff again, now standing to clear the table. But now I wasn't alone, which calmed my racing heart at least a little.

I helped Geoff clean up the kitchen before I thanked him again. I returned to my room, and sat down on my disheveled bed. Blankets and sheets were haphazardly strewn across my mattress. I found space between the comforters to gather my thoughts. The change of pace that breakfast provided was nice, but I had to return to my rut.

I had named Julian Fox to die months before. I did it out of curiosity. I jumped down the rabbit hole with reckless abandon, never thinking of how I would climb out again. Next was Melody Gank, taken out from under me. I attacked her out of desperation, but saved her in the end. The shadow had a different take on the situation.

The hand with the ribbon was clearly a warning. But as to how Melody's severed hand arrived on Pewds's doorstep the same day of her murder, I feared I would never know. I had begun to suspect that it was not Melody's. Maybe it was just some coincidence. That seemed silly.

Then there was Cassidy Craft... if she existed, if I took her life. It happened in a nightmare, but did that mean it could not also be true? Her end was gruesome, recorded in full on a camera. And there was my face- my bloody, terrible face- smiling back at me. I dismissed the thought of her.

So that was it. Two victims, with the strong possibility of a third. Maybe. Probably. What about a fourth? I had a plan this time, and that plan was, well, to prepare, to plan, to mark the next one with a more hesitant hand. I couldn't decide if it was more or less cruel to go about this way, but I ended up saying fuck it. For my sake, it was just safer. If not for my body, for my conscience.

There was a tentative knock on my door frame and Geoff peered inside my cluttered room. For the first time, he saw my written rambling and my further collections piled near my desk. Any thoughts he seemed to have ebbed from his eyes when he saw them: the unmoved, untouched hatchets.

Geoff seemed fascinated and ran a finger over ones dusty edge. He smiled, but didn't ask. He already had me pegged as a hoarder, I could tell. That, or a psycho. Both were just as plausible at this point. "I was hoping we could go get that security system today."

Oh yeah, that. "Sure. I've got to get glasses anyway." Although I was beginning to adjust to seeing the world though strained eyes, it would be nice to see the return of my frames. As much as I wanted to stay here, in the safety of my home, I knew it would be better for me to venture out. The shadow would stay clear in the light, I had hoped.

"So, wanna go now?" Geoff asked. I wondered if he was only inviting me to come with so that I wouldn't be left alone. I thought that he was still trying to figure out exactly what my deal was.

x

The wind was rushing in through he driver's side window with no sign of letting up. Geoff insisted on driving my car. The air rushing past grabbed his curly hair and tugged it in all directions, to his displeasure.

He wasn't from my city and he only knew his way around a bit, so I was playing navigator. I learned he was from a few cities over, and that he barely ever ventured here except to see his grandmother on occasion. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen him across the street, but I couldn't place him there.

Geoff was switching through radio stations every few seconds. He would listen intently for a heartbeat or two before changing to something else. He finally stopped on a song by an artist that I barely recognized. The lyrics were something about feeling lonely, even when surrounded by a million people. I found it very relevant, as someone who is appreciated by many but not necessarily understood.

I rested my head against the cold glass and let my eyes drag across the city. It was barren. It could have been the time of day, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was really the fear that kept everyone inside. It didn't seem to worry Geoff, though he must have thought the same of me.

We pulled into an empty parking lot, and I could almost feel pain flaring up between my ribs. I reminded myself not to go provoking large men while casting a glance to Geoff. I would let him handle it. Geoff locked the car, not that it did much good with a window missing. "I'll go pick up the security system while you get your new glasses, alright?"

"Sure." We swapped cell numbers and I agreed to check in when we were finished. Geoff popped ear buds back into his ears before walking off, and I wondered how long he'd been aching to return to his music. We split up, and Geoff trailed off towards a Home Depot further down the lot. I caught sight of an Eyemart Express across the street.

Cars were just starting to turn up, and lights were slowly turning on one by one around me. The city was waking up. I crossed the traffic-less road and approached the glassy storefront. The door was locked, but a few employees scuffled around lazily inside.

A woman caught sight of me and came towards the door. There was something familiar about her face, but I couldn't place it in this context. "Early bird, hmm? Come on in." The blonde invited me to sit down, and, after telling me she'd be with me in a minute, she bounded away into the back rooms.

I racked my brain for a connection. She seemed nice, and she was beautiful. I might not have known her, but maybe I wanted to. The girl came back a few moments later with a clipboard and pen in her hand. She handed them to me, and I smiled gratefully. My voice dipped. "Sorry, do I know you from somewhere?"

She considered for a moment. "I don't think so." She extended a hand for me to shake. "Doctor Craft." Her words struck a dull chord, enough to make me hesitate in taking up her hand.

"Cassidy Craft?" I asked carefully. My heart beat against my ribs for a painfully long moment as she stared back in surprise.

"Guilty. And who are you? Not many people show up here at six in the morning," she teased. My heart sank a little. I didn't know what to draw from this. coincidence? It had to be... right? I could feel my throat closing up as I remembered that blood-covered form cowering in the corner, a knife clutched in her shaking hands...

"Um," I choked through my thick tongue and tried to dodge the question, "My new room-mate. He's, uh, a morning person."

Cassidy laughed a little. "If I could just get you to fill these out, we'll get started." She retreated to a display of frames and I lowered my gaze to the paper. The printed lines blurred together without my glasses, and I could feel the beginnings of a headache sprouting between my eyes.

Just as I was setting the pen tip to the paper, my phone vibrated obnoxiously. Cassidy glanced over as I slid it from my pocket and opened the message. Geoff. I couldn't shake the thought of him wondering if he should have left me alone. Maybe he shouldn't have; I was already becoming anxious.

"How's it coming?" A weird question. I was just getting glasses. I wasn't climbing a mountain or dancing in traffic. It was coming fine. Geoff was just checking in, of course. That was his job, I guess. Perhaps he was trying to reassure himself that I could be left alone.

"Headache," I typed in response. It wasn't the normal 'I'm-in-a-social-setting' headache that comes to me sometimes, this was the kind of headache I got when my world seemed to have taken a hairpin turn and not one for the better. When I'm not quite sure if I can handle it anymore. It had happened a lot recently. When I was so fed up with this fucking Jumanji _bullshit_ that I just wanted to stop playing. Of course, I can't really do that.

"I will pick up Advil," he texted back immediately. Thoughtful, but that will not stave off the killer on my heels. I couldn't blame Geoff, though. I imagined that two Advil and some Stevie Wonder could solve all of his problems.

I set my phone down and picked the clipboard back up. Shaky pen to blurry paper, I started to write. When I had finally finished, I had calmed down a little. I think the normalcy of filling out paperwork had a sedative effect on me. Cassidy came and collected the clipboard from me and led me into a back room.

The eye exam went as you would expect. The only exception was this doctor I presumed to be dead who kept asking me which was better, A or B. I found it difficult to keep my focus on the actual exam, and not the living corpse.

"A... or B?" Cassidy switched between two slides. I snapped to attention, and almost bit my tongue out of surprise. They weren't letters or symbols hazily transposed before me. One was a blurry picture of a man, and the other was a slightly blurrier woman. I strained to make out the features, but I couldn't.

"B," I murmured. The doctor presented the same two slides, but slightly more in focus. Still, I couldn't make them out. A man followed shortly by a woman. "B," I said again.

The slides were now crystal clear. The man was pale, his skin thinly drawn over pointed features. His eyes were dark and sunken deep into his skull. I yelped and leapt back from the glaring, glazed-over eyes of Julian Fox. My own breath choked me, and I tried my hardest to sink through the back of the chair I was in.

"What's wrong?" Cassidy called my real name soothingly, but there was nothing she could say that would make me forget that awful face. The look of horror and anger on his skeletal face. Rage burned in his colorless eyes.

"I'm sorry, Julian!" I cried out, my voice forced to new levels of wrong. I tried to push away the heavy, suspended machine I'd been looking into. Cassidy came closer and tried to calm me down with a hand on my shoulder. I entertained that gesture for a moment before gently pushing her away. "I'm sorry."

"Cassidy..." The doctor corrected. She looked at the slide, then back to me. "I don't understand," she murmured frankly.

I met her eyes with a look of confusion and disbelief. "How could you not see...?" She brings the machine back to my face. I give her a pleading look, but she forces me to look once again into the machine. I was greeted not by a man, but the word, "flower."

I chuckle nervously, trying to play it off. "I- Sorry. I'm... not a morning person."

After making a fool of myself in the optometrist's chair, I was returned to the waiting room. I spent several minutes trying to avoid Cassidy's concerned gaze from behind the counter. Finally she called me forward with my new glasses in hand. She handed them to me with a concerned but polite smile. She offered to call a ride for me, but I waved it off. "My car is right across the street."

Cassidy let me go hesitantly, and I stepped into a world of new clarity. The sun was up now and people were milling all over. Perhaps they weren't scared after all. I could see every eye skip over me, every person passing me without a second glance. Anonymous.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, disturbing my moment of invisible peace. Geoff again. "Headache?" It said simply. The headache had subsided for now, replaced by this mix of uncertainty and momentary relief. Cassidy wasn't dead, which I suppose was nice even if I didn't understand how.

It actually made me really uncomfortable that Cassidy was alive. I mean, great. One less life on my head, but one more reason to be concerned all the same. I knew her before I met her. I tried to rationalize that I had probably seen her before somewhere and that this and my growing stress was where the dream had sprung from. Problem with that was that I was sure I hadn't.

I gazed across the street to the fuller parking lot. I could see my car from where I was standing, and I could tell that Geoff wasn't there yet. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in my car for God-only-knows how long.

"Taking a walk," I texted Geoff. He wasn't my keeper, but I thought I should throw him a bone. I hid my hands away in the pockets of my jeans and started down the sidewalk. People passed expressionless on both sides, their eyes fixed determinedly on the nothingness ahead of them. Perhaps to not see the yellow spray paint marring the buildings or the headlines calling for caution.

Caution was silly. It didn't keep them safe. I kept them safe, even if I was also the one who put them in danger. A point that was easily looked over. If I were a more malicious man, I would have committed more lives than three. Perhaps, I thought, if I were a more merciful man I would have taken my own.

I shook my head. That wasn't a good mindset to have, and I knew it. This walk was to clear my head, not muddle it further. My cell phone vibrated and I slowed my walk to read its new message. My eyes didn't even scan the first line when they caught the movement.

The white-coated figure pushed past me with a polite, "Excuse me." She hurried down the sidewalk, weaving between the busy, unseeing people. My eyes flickered up fast enough to see her call out to someone on the sidewalk opposite.

She stepped from the curb and out into the street. My eyes traced her path to the other side, and I spotted a hooded figure there. The figure looked faintly interested, but he turned and faded into the stream of people without another moment.

Cassidy is in my arms, suddenly. Water splashes onto us as a bus careens past, and her snow-white coat was splattered with murky browns. A weak breath escapes her and she steals a look at me. I didn't know what I'd just done, and it took me several seconds to realize.

She looked like she was caught between breaking free and thanking me. "You saved me..." She used my real name and I cringed a bit. She caught my eyes with hers and held them thoughtfully. People stopped to ask her if she was okay. A man clasped me on the shoulder and shook it, as what I had done had any effect on him. I squirmed under his fingers.

I loosened my grip and she slipped from it, her warmth going with her. Another man prodded me on the shoulder and handed me my phone, which I had dropped moments before. I nodded my hesitant thanks and returned my hands to the safety of my pockets.

Cassidy was still trying to find her words. I swallowed any courage I might have mustered to reel her back in from her meeting with the pavement. "I- I've got to go," I managed as I started to walk off.

But she was on my heels. She loosely grabbed the sleeve of my shirt. "Let me thank you... a little more properly." The thought of her crumbled on her bedroom floor rushed back to my mind, then a flash of that twisted, familiar face. I shook my head.

"I have to go." I slipped my sleeve from her fingers and crossed the street. I risked a glance back, but she had been overtaken by concerned passersby. I let out a shaky breath. She should have been dead twice now. But I saved her.

But in the grand scheme of things, that mattered very little. I could feel my heartbeat, elevated by all the people, settling finally in my chest. I could see Geoff leaning up against my car, looking like I was a child late for dinner.

He removed one ear bud. "Where have you been?" I think he was more upset that I had interrupted his music.

"I saved a life," I murmured as I slid into the passenger side. Geoff shot me a skeptical look as we started to drive home. His eyes softened as I recounted my tale.

"And you just left her there?" Geoff gripped the wheel tighter in disbelief. "It sounds like the beginning of a book. But Mr. Cold and Composed here left her on the curb."

"You don't understand, she's... different," I tried to avoid his eyes and found myself looking at anything else. I doubted Geoff would ever be able to understand. "I can't be near her."

Geoff smiled and silently handed me the Advil. His hand reached down to the CD slot and he pushed in a disc I've never seen before. I looked at him questioningly for a moment before I understood. I bit back laughter as Stevie Wonder filled the car.


End file.
